THE MARK ON STAYFORD'S PISTOL.
The stage was on its return trip from Louisville. It had but a single passenger, and that passenger was Sheriff Lane, who sat with the driver on top of the coach. The conversation naturally drifted to the capture of the two robbers the previous week. The driver said that he had thought the matter over for hours at a time, and had but one solution to the strange conduct of Stayford. The man, he thought, was not accustomed to such work; he grew nervous under the strain, and accidentally fired the revolver, on which he had but a slight hold. In consequence of this, it rebounded from his hand.
"I've been thinking that there matter over," said Mr. Lane, at the same time drawing from his pocket the identical pistol which Stayford had dropped. "Do you see that there mark on the upper part of the rusty barrel?" he asked, as he held up the weapon in front of the driver.
"Plainly," was the answer.
"What do you think done it?"
"It seems to be the mark of a bullet."
"When do you think that there mark was made?"
"Certainly within the past few days."
"So far we agree exactly," said the sheriff. "I noticed that there mark about an hour after I arrested the robbers. It was somewhat brighter then than it is now. I reckon that a rifle shot from the top of the hill knocked that there pistol from Stayford's hand. What's your opinion?"
"In the first place, Sheriff, we should have heard the report of the rifle."
"That's my only difficulty," put in Mr. Lane. "But we'll settle that there thing later on. What else have you to say?"
"Well, I reckon any sensible fellow would shoot at the robber, and not at the robber's pistol."
"Most fellers would! Most fellers would!" repeated the sheriff. "But I know one feller that wouldn't—young Howard, who won the prize at Grundy's farm last fall. You see, he's only a boy, and he would not care about shootin' nobody. But he knew that he could hit that pistol clean and sharp; and he's the only feller in this here part of the country who could do it. Did you ever hear of young Howard?"
"I reckon I didn't," remarked the driver.
"Then half of your life is lost, my friend."
"Does he shoot well?"
"Shoot! Great pos-sim-mons! Shoot!" exclaimed Mr. Lane. "Every time that there boy raises his rifle somethin' drops; I never seen the like of it in my born days!"
"So you think that young Howard happened to be on the bluff overlooking the road."
"He was up there, sure as a gun. He's the only one who could have done the work so clean and sharp. Just look at this," continued the sheriff, as he held the pistol in front of the driver. "Just look at this mark! The ball struck the barrel in exactly the right spot. Had the boy missed his aim the width of a straw he would either have failed to knock the pistol from Stayford's hand or would have run the risk of killing one of us."
"But why didn't the little fellow show himself?" asked the driver.
"I reckon he's kind of scared, and made off for home. He ain't one of them here fellers that puts on much. Down at Grundy's, when he had won in the wing shot, I had hard work getting him to try at the target. You see, he missed the target first, because his powder was wet. But when he did begin shooting—great pos-sim-mons! he just done the best I ever seen! He drove the ball home to the bull's eye every crack!"
"But again I ask, Sheriff, why did we not hear the rifle?"
"I reckon that's hard to explain. But I'll ask the boy what happened when he fired. I'm going to get off at Howard's and stay around that part of the country for a week or so. I have important business there."
"Something connected with the elections, I reckon," said the driver.
"Them elections is a long ways off. Still, I reckon I'll run when the time comes. With Squire Grundy on my side, I ought to make a tol'able good fight."
The men continued to talk about the robbers and the elections until they came to a station, where the horses were exchanged and several passengers taken in.
It was a little before sunset when the stage drew up in front of the Howard home-stead. What was Owen's surprise, when, looking through the window of the dining-room, he saw his giant friend entering the yard gate, while the stage continued on its way. This meant that Mr. Lane was to remain at his father's house at least for one night. But what could be the object of his visit? Was he coming to thank Owen for assisting him in capturing the robbers? No! this could not be; for the boy was convinced that no one had seen him or was aware of his presence on that eventful day.
Mr. Howard stepped out on the porch to welcome the stranger.
"Good evening, sir," he said to Mr. Lane, as the latter walked up the narrow foot path toward the house.
"Good even, sir. My name's Dick Lane—Coon-Hollow Jim, the folks often call me. I have got business in this here part of the country, and want to ask if I'll be welcome under your roof for one night."
"For a dozen nights, Mr. Lane—just as long as you wish to stay with us," said the farmer, grasping the visitor's hand. "We've heard of you before, sir," he continued. "Owen often speaks of your kindness to him at the shooting-match."
"He desarved it all, Mr. Howard. A fine lad he is; and the best marksman in the State."
"He does handle a rifle fairly well; but I've had him at the axe and plow for some months past," observed the farmer with a laugh.
"Here's my young friend!" exclaimed the giant, as Owen stepped out on the porch and the two shook hands. "See here, youngster," he continued, "I'm sheriff of the county now, and I think I'll arrest you for beating me at the shooting-match."
"And how do you like your new office?" asked Mr. Howard.
"Only tol'ably well, sir. But I reckon I'll get into it later on."
Bertha appeared at the door and with a courtesy invited the gentlemen in to supper. When the meal was over the two men lighted their cob pipes, and, at Mr. Lane's suggestion, strolled out into the woodyard for a private talk. Here they sat for an hour while Mr. Lane explained the object of his visit. He gave the whole history of the whisky cave, told of the arrest of Jerry and Stayford, and finally declared his intention of proceeding to the cave on the following morning, in the hope of arresting Tom the Tinker while the latter was actually engaged in making whisky.
"Now I understand all," said Mr. Howard, when he had listened to the visitor's story; "I knew there was a thief in this part of the country; I suspected the man, but I could never put my finger on any one. Tom the Tinker was certainly a clever man; but all thieves and robbers are caught in the end. His time has now come."
The two men sat in silence for some time, watching the smoke as it curled up from their glowing pipes.
"But Jerry," resumed the farmer in a low, sad voice; "I'm sorry for Jerry. He's been a dear, good friend of us all for these many years. How the young folks will miss him—will miss his fiddle—his jolly call at the dance; still, I see no way to help him now; he's been caught, and must abide by his sentence."
"I found it hard to give him over to the jailer," added Mr. Lane, "but my duty called for it."
"That it did, Sheriff; you would not have been the man for your office if you had let him escape. We must often do things that are not pleasant."
The two men arose and walked slowly toward the house. Mr. Howard volunteered to assist the Sheriff, but the latter preferred to make the arrest alone. It was his intention to start for the cave early on the following morning, so as to examine the entrance during the day and be ready to capture the Tinker at night.
Mr. Howard brought the visitor to Owen's room, where a bed had been prepared for him. As soon as the farmer retired the sheriff drew Stayford's pistol from his pocket, and, handing it to Owen, asked whether he had ever seen it before.
The boy examined the rusty weapon, then gave it back with the assurance that this was the first time he had seen it.
"Take it again, and look at the barrel," said Mr. Lane.
Owen was still ignorant of the fact that this was the pistol which he had knocked from Stayford's hand; but as he inspected it closely the truth forced itself upon him—that indentation in the middle of the barrel had been made by his rifle. He was not surprised that the sheriff should have kept the robber's revolver, but why did he insist on Owen's examining it?
"Come, my boy," said the sheriff, "is there no strange mark on that there barrel?"
"A small one, just in the center."
"Something like a bullet mark, I reckon."
"Yes, sir," said Owen, with a laugh, for he now began to suspect that either Mr. Lane or some of the other travelers had seen him when he stepped from behind the tree to fire at Stayford's pistol.
"Oh, you little rascal! You beat me at the shooting-match last fall, but I reckon I've got you now. A bullet from your rifle made that there mark." The sheriff laughed, and so did Owen.
The latter then explained how he chanced to be in the woods that day, and how, by accident, he had observed the two robbers. He acknowledged, too, that a shot from his rifle had rescued Mr. Lane and the other travelers from the hands of the robbers.
"Why did you not let us know that you were up on that hill?" asked the sheriff.
"One good turn deserves another," said Owen, hesitatingly. "You helped me at the shooting-match; I helped you to capture the robbers. That made us even; So I thought that I'd say nothing about it."
"But it's strange that none of us heard the crack of your rifle."
"I scarcely heard it myself," was the boy's reply. "It seemed to me that my rifle and the robber's pistol went off at the same time."
"Won't Squire Grundy be surprised when he hears how it all happened?" said Mr. Lane.
He was certainly a happy man that night. He had not only proved that he was brave, but, by discovering the part which Owen had taken in the capture of the robbers he showed beyond a doubt that he could knit facts together in such a way as to trace out accomplices, even where the shrewd Squire failed to do so.
Owen soon found himself talking with the visitor as familiarly as if the two were on terms of equality, and had been friends for years.
"Do you know what Father Byrne called you and me when he heard that I was going to the shooting-match?" he asked.
"You mean that sort of a preacher what comes 'round here," said the sheriff.
"Yes, sir; the priest. We call him Father to show our respect for him."
"I seen him down on the Green river, long on five years ago. He come into Medley's store tol'ably late one night, and was half froze—had been out some forty miles or so to see a sick person. Medley, he's a Catholic, and kept the preacher over all night. He set down at the stove and began to tell us stories. He beats all I've seen for that kind of work, even Squire Grundy, 'cept he didn't lie like the squire. Well, what did the preacher say about you and me and the shootin'-match?"
"He called me David, and you Goliath."
"Go-go-who?"
"Goliath—the big man—the giant."
"Live 'round this here part of the country?" inquired Mr. Lane.
"No-o-o-o!" exclaimed Owen, with a prolonged and evident surprise.
"Never heard of him before," said the visitor.
"Father Byrne brought me a book which tells all about David and Goliath. Here it is," he continued, as he took a small illustrated Bible history from a table and held it in the dim light of a tallow candle.
"Go-go-what's his name?"
"Goliath."
"Go-go-li-yah is one of them there fellers you read about in books. That's the reason I did not know nothin' about him. You see, I can't read much, my lad. Squire Grundy says I'm got to larn better, and how to write, too, before the next election. But now, just tell me about the Go-go-li-yah."
"He was a very big man—a giant," began Owen. "David was a small boy. The two had a fight, and the little boy killed the big giant."
"And that's the reason the preacher called me Go-go-li-yah," said Mr. Lane; "because I was a big man, and was whipped by you. But what did old Go-li-yah fight with—a horse-pistol, I reckon?"
"N-o-o-o," replied Owen, with another prolonged surprise. "Goliath used a sword, and David a sling."
"One of them things that boys use for throwing rocks?" inquired Mr. Lane.
"Yes, sir. But here's a picture of the fight. You see, here's the giant lying on his back. David has taken Goliath's sword and has raised it to cut off his head."
"Served him right," answered the visitor, calmly. "If he'd only had sense enough to use a rifle or a ho'se-pistol he wouldn't have had his darn noggle chopped off."
Owen continued to turn the pages of the history slowly, while he narrated some of the striking events of the Old and New Testament. Mr. Lane listened with the simplicity of a child. How he marveled at the passage of the Red Sea—the pillar of fire and luminous cloud in the desert—the fall of the walls of Jericho.
Before retiring that night Owen knelt by his bed and prayed fervently for Mr. Lane; prayed that He who had opened a way through the waters and had lit up the path in the desert would also give to his friend the gift and light of faith.